Self-Aware

The greatest gift we can give our children as parents is the knowledge that they always have a choice. Sometimes we fuck up and we do and say things to our children that don’t quite line up with how we feel about them. Take my mom for instance. I remember frustrating her so many times that she would insult me in ways that I could dream of being able to do. So many times I was told I was only good for laying on my back; I eventually believed it to be true. I didn’t know I had a choice not to believe it. I was a kid. My Mother was saying these things about me. I mean, they must be true. Right? Every choice I made thereafter was solely based on the knowledge that my Mother (and Father) believed these things to be true. And for a while, they weren’t. For two years to be exact. Because I always remember the insults getting worse when I was 14. I made a friend at school and she was immediately deemed a bad influence. A harlot if you will. All I was worried about were boys and what I needed to be worried about was my education. And the sad part was, that although yes, I may have been a little boy crazy, I was perfectly content with making myself feel good sexually. I wasn’t trying to have sex with boys. I was just trying to figure out why I was feeling the way I was. So many emotions come rushing at you as a teenager. Everything is so overwhelming. Every bad thing is horrifying and ever good thing is ecstasy. Every sadness felt like the one that was going to drive you to jump off the bridge, and every happiness was the ultimate reason to be alive. It was SO MUCH. And there was no one to talk to. No one to confide in. I felt I had no choice and gave into that belief that I felt and acted the way I did because that was just who I was. A whore. And I realize now that I was denied the right to choose if that was who I wanted to be. In her anger and frustration towards me (and perhaps towards her own failings as a Mother), my mom made the mistake of not reminding me that in life, we all have a choice. I didn’t have to sleep with that boy. That was a choice. Just because in anger she would yell these things, didn’t make them necessarily true. We continue to underestimate the complexity that we are as human beings. Perhaps our purpose in life is not to make money and acquire fame, etc., etc.  Maybe our purpose is to be open to the error of our ways, and as a society come together and raise the next generation of self-aware human beings. And I choose this description deliberately. Self-aware. We usually categorize this phrase with computers, AI’s. Having conscious knowledge of one's own character and feelings. And how exactly can we as humans become self-aware when we have other people, society and sometimes even our families telling us who we are rather than letting us discover who we can be? 

The End

The limousine pulls up to a small, unassuming building. Inhaling, I hold my breath long enough to feel ridiculous in my tortoise-shell sunglasses and perfectly coiffed tresses. Exhaling, I step out and linger on the sidewalk. The city seems different today. There's a weight in the air I didn't feel before and a quiet that disturbs me. My chest aches and I pinch the ornate silver charm hanging from my neck between my fingers. A familiar hand clasps mine. I look down and my son smiles up at me. I give our hands a gentle shake and say, "are you ready?" We enter and an unsettling silence welcomes us. A sterile aroma mixed with faint florals tickles my nose. I realize that I'm alone, my son distracted, unaware of the feelings taking over me. I stare straight ahead at a dim room, an audience of empty chairs lined up in perfect rows. My breath quickens and I can almost hear the faint thump of my heart, a lump I've become all too familiar with forms in my throat. I hesitate, trying to muster up the courage to enter the room. I concentrate on anything other than the sight before me; the carpet collapsing under my weight with each step. A dilapidated love seat is positioned at the head of the arranged seats, daring me to sit and stare at the morbid curiosity. A few feet ahead I spot a pew cushion and despite my internal protest, decide to kneel before the open, wooden box. I recognize the black lace dress before me. The last time I saw it, it draped the body of a woman who had become unfamiliar to me, paper thin skin and jutting bones telling the story of the horrors she had faced. The irony is not lost on me when I realize we had been in a room, not unlike this one the last time she wore it. I wheeled her around the room, her weakness on display for everyone to see. I dared myself to feel the unfamiliar hand before me, a rosary entwined between waxed fingers, red polished nails feeling inappropriate in this setting. The frozen touch shocks me and for a moment I am suspended in disbelief. Is this really happening? My hands are no longer a part of me as they explore the figure laid out on a white satin sheet. My fingertips brush the sleeve of her dress, stopping only when the familiar crinkle of plastic awakes me from my stupor. Without thinking I gather the excess fabric covering her frail and frozen arm to confront this intruder. "Why is she covered in plastic? Why would they do that to her?" My voice is unfamiliar to me, deep and hysterical, breaking the sacred moment. My skin prickles and my eyes sting, betraying my strength. The room spins and I can't breathe. I do the unthinkable and stare at this stranger in the face, jaw sewn shut, cotton peeking through her nose. For a moment, I am lucid, noticing she's wearing makeup and I reminisce to a time when she was smiling and oh so beautiful. My body heaves and I no longer care if I'm making a scene. I refuse to believe this is real. It's a dream. It has to be. A gentle arm drapes my shoulder, attempting to calm the storm brewing inside of me. "Come. It's okay. Sit down." I let myself be led to the oversized couch, and sink into the seat. It sags beneath me with the weight of my grief. My mother is dead. She is lying in front of me, and I didn't say goodbye. 

Biopsies & Heartache

My leg bounces as I try to steady my breathing. My fingertips tingle and I fight the urge to bring my nails to my mouth. The waiting area is small, filled with silent stares and secret thoughts filled with dread. I peek over at my mom. She looks peaceful, and it annoys me. I shift in my seat and exhale in exasperation.

      “Maria Rodriguez.” Cindy, the balding, corkscrewed haired nurse calls my mother’s name. We push ourselves up out of our seats, not a single word disturbing the silence between us.

      “Como esta? Como se siente?”

      “Ay mija, ahi.” A small, pitiful smile appears at Cindy’s lips. She nods, indicating understanding. We are lead into an office; a large desk flanked by two chairs greets us. A petite, kind faced Asian woman stares back at us, a grim expression upon her face. I notice that every inch of the desk is covered in brochures and textbooks. A pair of model breasts sits perched on a shelf, the muscles and inner workings of its lady bits on display for all to see. To our left, is Cindy. Her arms hang in front of her pudgy midsection, her fingers interlaced and head bowed; She reminds me of Catholics in a church reciting the Our Father.

      “Good morning Mrs. Rodriguez. Thank you for coming. How are you feeling today?”

      “Mm, I’m okay.” Her voice is small and nothing like the voice of my mother. A voice that burns with the power of a thousand fires when she is hurling insults and disciplining us. My jaw clenches, and I focus my gaze on Dr. Ma. She opens one of her many textbooks.

      “Your biopsy results came in. I regret to have to inform you that the mass on your breast is in fact malignant. You have been diagnosed with a rare, rapidly developing cancer; IBC or Inflammatory Breast Cancer.”

      What? What does she mean Cancer?

Dr. Ma’s voice is far away, I feel like I am under water.

      She’s wrong. It’s not Cancer. For sure it was just an abscess. I mean, that’s what it looks like. Besides how could my mom have Cancer? That’s not supposed to happen to me.

My vision blurs and I collapse deeper into my seat. My body is racked with sobs, Cindy hands me a tissue. Next to me, my mother sits. She resembles a Queen on her throne. Her back erect, her chin points towards the ceiling, an unfocused stare on her face. Her eerie calm makes me suspicious of her.

      She knew. She knew all along. She just needed confirmation. How could she betray me?

 I stare at my hands, searching for an answer to a question I don’t yet have. Random words drift by.

      “Stage four…Chemotherapy…We need to schedule a PET scan.”

      How can she be so fucking calm? Doesn’t she get it? Cancer. She has fucking Cancer. Stage four of a rare, rapid Cancer.

Dr. Ma hands us a pamphlet and reminds us to schedule appointments. I look at my mother’s face. Her eyes are cold and distant. Her lips flat. I imagine myself smacking that stupid, “I’m sorry you have Cancer”, smile off of Cindy’s face. Back in the waiting room I make tearful calls to my brothers and sister. My mom fidgets in her seat, her hands make fists and she sighs with exaggeration. I pull myself together.

      My mother has Cancer. I did this.

How many times as a teen, did I wish her dead because she simply just didn't understand me? Because she smacked me for sassing her, or called me a name because I was more focused on boys than on my grades. 

      I take it back. All of it. I don't want her to die. She’s not going to die. People beat Cancer all the time. She’s stubborn. Strong. She’ll get through this. She has to. She’s my mother. She won’t die.

      “Maria Rodriguez.”